


here, there, and in between

by bleep0bleep



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - The Time Traveler's Wife, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Depression, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pining, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6678253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleep0bleep/pseuds/bleep0bleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Zimmerman is unstuck in time.</p><p>Well, not always, because nowadays there are a lot of reasonable medications for the rare condition that is chrono-impairment. He hasn’t had involuntary time travel since he was a kid, and when he does feel that pull behind his navel it’s random; to his past, his family’s past, sometimes to the future, a strange place. There’s no pattern.</p><p>Until he starts appearing in the backyard in Georgia where a boy offers him pie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello! Happy hiatus, everyone! I've had this idea stuck in my head forever and finally just decided to get down and write it. Thank you to [petals42](http://petals42.tumblr.com), [spellwovennight](http://spellwovennight.tumblr.com), [metakate](http://metakate.tumblr.com), and [mad-madam-m](http://mad-madam-m.tumblr.com) for the brainstorming and looking over so far. 
> 
> You don't need to have read _The Time Traveler's Wife_ or watched the movie to understand what's happening in the fic. Basically, chrono-impairment is a genetic condition that causes a person to time travel randomly, especially if they are stressed. Fudging the timelines of Nifflinger's canon a bit so we're in a present where that there's been prominent research since Henry and Claire (let's say those events took place like a decade earlier), and there's treatment for the condition. It's rare, but not unheard of.
> 
>  **Trigger warnings:** The story for the first two chapters will follow Jack immediately after his overdose in juniors and in rehab, and a suicide attempt and suicidal idealization will be referenced but not explicitly described. It's in the major tags because I don't want anyone to be surprised, but it's not the focus of the story.

_03 January 2009, Jack is 18_

 

Rehab is the worst. Jack hates everything about it, the sickly teal color of the walls, the too-cheerful staff in their colorful scrubs, and he hates group most. He never knows what to say, what to share, and he just wants to be done.

The worst part might be the shakes. And the nausea. And the vomiting. Or the headaches, he can never be sure.

“It’s normal for withdrawal,” Doctor Callahan says. “We’ll get you right as rain in no time.”

Jack’s starting to hate that phrase. Right as rain, he’ll start feeling better. Right as rain, the empty ache, the fear in his heart will be gone. Right as rain, he’ll only be here for a few months.

He’s not going to get drafted. He’s not ever going to play pro hockey. He’s going to rot here, in this miserable rehab center, all because it didn’t fucking work.

It’s all Kenny’s fault.

Kenny takes the blame gladly when he visits, stares at Jack across the plastic table in the room they have for visiting hours. He scowls and just says, “Fuck you, Jack, one day you’ll be glad you’re still here. I know you fuck as all hell hate me for calling 911 when I did, but I’m not sorry.”

At least Kenny’s visits are better than his parents, who look at him with equal parts horrified, disappointment and concern. It’s the worry that’s the worst. He hates the look on their faces. “Just get better, son,” his dad says, patting him gently on the hand after twenty minutes of them just staring at each other.

Jack doesn’t know what he wants to do; he’s trapped, he wants to rage and storm but he can’t, he can’t, he’s being watched all the time and the last person who had an “outburst” got their meds changed and he doesn’t want that, doesn’t need more scrutiny. He just wants to play by their rules and go back to hockey.

But he’s here.

Jack feels the bile in his throat rising up again, and he rushes to the bathroom, just in time to hurl the congealed brown mess that was the roast-beef-mash-potato-gravy that they had for lunch. He kneels on the hard tile of the bathroom floor and vomits until he’s got nothing left.

Jack feels the cold twisting behind his navel and barely has time to think, _yes, take me away, take me somewhere better_ before the bathroom tiled floor fades away from his vision.

 

* * *

 

 

_18 May 2013, Eric is 18 (Jack is 18)_

 

There’s still the taste of bile on his lips but he’s no longer in the ugly teal bathroom.

He’s outside in an unfamiliar garden, bright and filled with colorful flowers. It’s clear that everything growing here has been taken care of for years with love. There’s a peach tree, swelling with fruit, and the air seems to shimmer with warmth. Jack feels a bit dazed. It was winter, and now he feels overwhelmed with life and color.

The house is a modest two story affair with painted blue shutters. Jack has no idea where he is. He’s never seen this house before, has never travelled here on any of his trips.

He was diagnosed with chrono-impairment when he was very young; it wouldn’t be a risk for playing hockey, the doctors assured his parents, there were all sorts of medications and treatments to help keep someone in their present time. Still, stress and heightened emotions could still trigger a time travel episode, and Jack still remembers the few ones he’s had as a child— that familiar swooping sensation behind the stomach, then landing somewhere new, bright and colorful and exciting. He’d seen his father win the Stanley Cup, saw himself as a baby with his parents, and once talked to a man who he recognized later as his great-grandfather.

He can count on his hands how many times he’s time travelled before, and it’s always been to a place he knows, to a person he knows.

This… this is new.

He stands there, feeling the breeze on his skin, feeling strangely hopeful and curious for the first time in a long while.

“Oh my word, _Jack!”_

A short blond boy with big brown eyes pushes aside a sliding door, and he rushes towards Jack, an incandescent smile on his face. The afternoon sun hits his hair just so as he moves, lighting it up like a soft, gentle halo around his face. He’s quite beautiful, Jack thinks dazedly.

He wonders if this is a dream.

“You ridiculous boy, what have I always told you about not to stand on ceremony, there’s always spare clothes tucked in the shed and— oh my, how long have you been standing there in your birthday suit, dear lord... Come on in, it’s a good thing Mama and Coach are out shopping with the Robinsons right now, I begged off sick because I had homework, but this is a great surprise, Jack, you said I wasn’t going to see you again, not in a long, long time, but I always keep clothes in the shed for you out of habit, and this is such a surprise and _wonderful_ …”

The boy ushers Jack inside the cozy home, and Jack is handed a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt that reads _MADISON COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL BULLDOGS._ It’s a men’s large, with a roster of what looks like a football team on the back. Jack gets dressed and steps outside the bathroom, and promptly is handed a glass of cool sweet tea.

He stares at it, and the boy leads him to the couch, talking all the while. The living room is open to the kitchen, and the boy is now pulling something frozen out of the freezer— dough?— and turning on the oven as he talks.

Jack takes a sip of the tea; it’s refreshing. He tries to follow the boy’s story but it feels like his mind is all fog; the medication he’s on tends to make him slow. But he’s incredibly comfortable, and while he’s never been to this house or seen this boy before he feels— safe.

Jack closes his eyes for a second and thinks about the prelims, and Kent’s disappointed, angry face, and leans back a little.

Yeah, this is safe. Good. But—

“Sorry, who are you?” Jack blurts out.

The boy stops— he’d been in the middle of a story, something about a neighbor and a dog and a pie recipe. “What?” he blinks in surprise.

“Thank you, for the tea and the clothes and everything, but you—” Jack doesn’t know how to explain it, or why this boy seems so _familiar_ with him, talking to him as if he’s an old friend. “I’ve never visited you before, that’s all.”

“Oh,” the boy says, eyes lighting up in understanding. “I’m Dicky, this must be— wow, the first time in your timeline you’ve met me. And I don’t even have a pie ready! But this one will be done soon enough. I wish you could take items with you when you travel, I could send you home with so much pie—”

“We’re friends?” Jack’s head hurts, but there’s something about this boy, the way affection just seems to pour out of him in droves.

“You’re— you’re my best friend, Jack,” Dicky says with such sincerity that Jack is overwhelmed.

He takes a sip of the tea, and a bloom of surprising sweet happiness seeps through him, down to his toes. “That sounds nice,” Jack says. There’s something else about this boy, something he appreciates. He likes the way Dicky’s eyes widen when he talks, the little curve of his mouth when he smiles. Likes the way he looks at Jack, without expectation, just… acceptance.

There are a lot of boys he knows in juniors that he’s friendly with, but it’s all smart mouthing and competition and fighting for those draft spots. There’s Kenny, but Jack doesn’t know what they are anymore, after everything that’s happened.

“Good,” Dicky says, and he smiles. “You should stop by more, I haven’t seen you in so long I was beginning to think you weren’t real.”

Dicky wipes his hands on his apron and then opens the oven and places a pie in— Jack hadn’t even noticed him working. There’s a dusting of flour on his nose, and Jack finds himself with the urge to wipe it off. “So tell me about us,” he finds himself saying. “We’re best friends, I visit you a lot…how long have I...?”

Dicky grins widely. “As long as I remember. I don’t remember how old I was but I used to talk to you about to my parents, they called you my imaginary friend. But every few weeks, or a few months— it was pretty random, you’d pop in and visit me. We talk a lot. I— when I was a kid I used to make you eat my Play-Doh pies.”

Jack laughs.

Dicky blushes; it’s a good look on him. “I’ve never— I haven’t seen you in awhile, though. But I’ve only seen you— well, I’ve never seen you this young, I think. How are you? I’ve been so rude, here I am just yappin’ away, and it’s be so lovely to see you again, Jack.”

How is he? Jack… doesn’t really know. “I’m okay, I guess.”

“You don’t really look okay,” Dicky says. “I mean, I’ve seen you when you’ve lost a game and you’ve never looked this bad.”

“A game? A… _hockey_ game?” Dicky knows Jack from the future. If Jack is still playing hockey…

Dicky nods. “Yup. You don’t tell me much about the actual details of your life, but I remember. You’re in college, you play hockey. I’ve never seen you older than that, though. But you promised me that we would meet in both your present and my present, so I’m guessing that’s when you stop visiting me.”

Jack nods, exhilaration and relief coursing through him. All he can focus on is that he’s _still playing hockey._

He gets through this.

Dicky takes his silence as encouragement, nods and continues talking. His voice is sweet, like a bubbling brook. “You’ve never told me how old you were, but sometimes you had a beard and good lord, you know I’ve read so much on chrono-impairment— or well, you will know, I suppose, and you know there are many accounts of chrono-impaired people where there’s a pattern in which they visit a person in their past and their future and well, it’s awfully exciting, I think. But you did say we’d meet again, but you were so vague about it, Jack. I’m so glad you’re here, I haven’t seen you since I was fifteen.”

“Oh?”

Dicky rubs the back of his head. “Yeah. I’m eighteen now, just had a birthday a few weeks ago.”

“Happy birthday,” Jack says, wondering about his future and Dicky’s past, where he and this boy are best friends.

Dicky’s eyes shine as he watches Jack; Jack takes another drink of the tea.

“This is good, thank you,” he says.

Dicky nods, looking pleased. “So— how old are you?”

“I’m eighteen,” Jack says.

Dicky keeps nodding, his cheeks and his ears pink.

He’s cute, Jack thinks. Very cute. And he likes Jack— or likes future Jack, in any case.

“So, I was, I was thinking, since you’re here, and I don’t know when I’ll see you again, I thought I might ask you a favor,” Dicky says breathlessly.

Jack thinks in this moment he would do anything for him. “Of course.”

“So I’m— I think I’m—” he squeaks a little. “I like boys,” Dicky says, in a small voice. “And I just got accepted to this college. A great college. Liberal, with like, lots of great LGBT programs and the such.” Dicky’s swaying a little as he talks, toeing the carpet self-consciously, looking at his feet. “And most the people I know at my high school who are going to college an’ all, they’ve all had relationships and been kissed and stuff. I haven’t.”

“Oh,” Jack says. He doesn’t know what else to say for a moment, but he thinks for a bit. Through the haze of medication he remembers his mom’s words when they’ve had talks about stuff like this. “That doesn’t mean anything unless you want it to mean something. I mean, lots of people don’t kiss anyone until a lot later in life, and there’s no wrong time to start or anything.” He’s phrasing it badly, he knows, because Dicky’s shoulders slump a little.

“But I want to kiss someone. A boy. I want to know what it’s like,” he says, eyes shining. “You’re the only boy I know that I’d like to ask— so will you kiss me, Jack? Please?”

Jack sets his tea down on the coffee table and stands up. Dicky’s a good foot shorter than him, and his eyes are warm and he blinks a little in surprise as he steps toward him. Jack cups his face in his hands and brings him close for a soft, gentle kiss.

He can feel Dicky sigh into it and just as he’s starting to relax and kiss back, Jack feels that jerk behind his navel again, and Dicky and the house dissolves around him.

 

* * *

 

 

_03 January 2009, Jack is 18_

 

Jack is naked and alone in the bathroom in his inpatient room. He feels dizzy, and slumps to the floor, exhausted.

He sits there for a few moments before he decides to get in the shower; he wills himself to stand up and stay under the spray for a few moments, replaying the images of a beautiful blond boy and a colorful home and garden in his head.

He couldn’t possibly be time travelling again, could he? He’s been on anti-chrono meds for years, but he’s on a new anti-anxiety medication and is trying a different anti-chrono combination with it because his usual one didn’t interact favorably.

Jack stares at the tiles, breathing heavily. It was a dream, he decides. The memory is fading even has he thinks about it, until all he’s remembering is a warm press of lips, and a promise from the future that he’ll play hockey again.

There’s a knock at the door. “Jack? It’s almost time for group.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Jack calls out.

He gets dressed, stares at himself in the mirror, takes some effort to style his hair a bit into something passable, remembering what his therapist said about routines and keeping up with self-care.

Jack sits down in group and listens as they go around the circle. The focus is goals today, short term goals, long term goals, it doesn’t matter.

Everyone shares. Jack usually passes, but this time he finds he has something to say. “I think I’m going to go to college,” he says. “Not right away, since like, I probably don’t have the grades and stuff right now. But one day. I’d like to.”

 

* * *

 

 

_31 September 2013, Eric is 18, Jack is 23_

 

The new frogs are a mess. Jack doesn’t know what to do with this— it’s his first year as captain and he’s got everything riding on this. He’s got to prove that he can be a good leader, a good hockey player, a good _person,_ and if Samwell doesn’t make it to the championships, if he fucks up their record, he’ll go down in history as the biggest fuck up in hockey there ever was.

He grips his tray harder than necessary. Shitty is rambling next to him about potential nicknames for the new frogs.

“Do you think ‘Surf n’ Turf’ is too long for Ollie?”

“Which one’s Ollie again?” Jack asks. He’s still trying to get down all their names. The only one he remembers is Bittle.

It’s unlikely he’d forget, the way Bittle curled in on himself on the ice in a panic at practice today, fear coursing through his eyes. In fetal position. And Holster wasn’t skating too fast anyways, it would have been a neat and simple check, but _this guy—_

Jack can see it now; he clenches his fists, thinking of infinite amount of plays that could be ruined. Other teams picking up on this weakness and exploiting it.

He’d talked to Coach Murray about it, demanded to know how Bittle even got on the team, and all Murray would say was that he’d sent in good tape, and then wouldn’t even show Jack the tapes.

“I’m captain,” Jack had said firmly. “I need to know these things.”

“A good captain also talks to his teammates,” Murray said, and he and Hall had nodded and walked off.

Jack needs to be a good captain. He needs to be a good _everything._

What he isn’t good at, is talking to people.

Shitty has led them to a table where a few guys are sitting already. Ransom is stealing all of Holster’s pickles and Holster picking fries off his plate, and… great. Some of the frogs are sitting here too.

Shitty slides into the seat next to Bittle, leaving the only empty seat right across from him. Jack sets down his tray, trying to practice small talk in his head. Maybe a good pep talk about checking. Or encouragement, that would be good.  

Bittle is staring at his uneaten food, shoulders slumped. He glances up apprehensively, catching the weight of Jack’s stare, and gives Jack a weird little half-smile.

“Bittle.” Jack doesn’t know what to say. He casts about for ideas— Shitty always said small talk could be about anything, the weather, food— he glances at Bittle’s plate,  some pasta and a mix of greens from the salad bar.

“You need to eat more protein,” he says gruffly.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_03 October 2013, Jack is 23_

 

“Are you sure?” Doctor Callahan looks over her glasses at him.

“Yeah, I think I’m okay. I mean, you know.” Jack nods at her. “I mean, there’s still stress with being captain and everything, but I think I am handling it. I just don't want to feel so sleepy all the time, you know? Especially now that we're in season. And I'm doing well.”

Callahan nods. “Support system still going strong?”

“Yeah, definitely.” Shitty probably already has his post-appointment pep talk ready. Or distraction. Whatever it is, Jack is looking forward to it. Seeing his psychiatrist is always emotionally exhausting.

“Alright, I think this new level could be great for you. We’ll see how it goes for the next few weeks.” She signs the new prescription and slides it back over to him. “I’m quite proud of you, you know. You’ve come a long way since I started seeing you.”

Jack tugs awkwardly at his shirt collar. “Thanks.” It doesn’t feel like an accomplishment, not really, but there is a part of him that does feel good about it. It’s just lowering the dosage on one of his meds. It’s not scoring a hat trick or anything.

“Alright, going down on the Klonopin, and you still have Xanax if you need it, right?”

“Haven’t used it in awhile, but yeah.”

“That’s good to hear, Jack.” Doctor Callahan looks pleased. “And as always with adjusting your meds, remember that the Klonopin and Aevum doesn’t always play nice with each other. If you experience any time travel or any other side effects, talk to me and your general doctor and we’ll have to readjust again.”

“Okay,” Jack says. “I haven’t time travelled at all since… yeah. It was just the once.”

“Yeah, that was very intense, I recall,” Doctor Callahan says.

Jack nods. Rehab and all of _after_ is a vague blur; mostly half-remembered faces of the other inpatients, doing crafts during art therapy, Doctor Callahan’s soothing voice. They dosed him really heavily with Aevum after he got settled with his other meds the first week; didn’t want to risk any possible time travel, not after what happened right after his overdose.

 

* * *

 

 

_June 16, 2064, Jack is 73 (Jack is 18)_

 

Jack shudders, trying to lift himself off the ground— he’s landed in a bed of flowers. Time travel, fuck. He hasn’t— hasn’t done this since he was a kid, since before he got on Aevum.

It means he’s not dead.

Fuck.

He throws up right on the tulips, and keeps going until there’s nothing left.

Jack has nothing left. He’s a failure at everything, at relationships, at life.

He groans, giving up on standing and just flops over. His head hurts and he doesn’t bother doing the usual that all chrono-impaired people are instructed to during an episode; find clothing, find shelter, find familiar people. He doesn’t care. Whoever owns this garden is probably going to come yell at the strange naked man in a second anyways. Maybe they’ll call the police and he’ll sit in a jail cell until he travels again.

“Get up,” says a voice behind him. “I know you’re feeling like shit right now, but my grandkids are excited to see you.”

“Whaa...” Jack opens one eye, and then the other. The stars blink at him, and trees rustle softly in the wind.

There’s an old man standing in the garden, holding out a bathrobe for him. For a second Jack thinks he’s looking an an older version of his own father, but the man’s eyes are blue, not brown.

“C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up before anyone else wanders out here,” the man says.

Jack doesn’t move.

 _“Merde!_ I know you’re coming from an awful time right now, but we really have to get going. C’mon. Can’t let my grandkids see me with puke all over my face.”

Jack takes the offered hand; the old man is strong for his age and pulls him to his feet easily. He’s still processing the man’s words as he wraps the bathrobe around himself.

The man leads him into the house; it’s a beautiful home, filled with soft, comfortable looking furniture. Many colorful photos of the old man’s family, presumably, decorate the walls. The house smells like warm cinnamon and apple and maple syrup somehow; Jack’s stomach makes a noise of interest. They walk through a large kitchen with sparkling granite counters; the fridge is decorated with crayon drawings. One of them reads “I LOV GRANDPAAAS.”

Jack only gets a glimpse in the dining room and the remains of what looks like a lovely homecooked meal before he’s ushered up the stairs. There are people talking from another room somewhere in the front of the house, children laughing.

As they walk upstairs they run into a short man with silver hair, smiling, wearing a cardigan and jeans. “Oh, there you are, sweetheart, I wondered where you got off to; I was waiting to cut the cake but— oh!” He beams at the sight of them and his eyes widen a little at Jack, but it’s definitely not a normal reaction for seeing a time-travelling stranger in your home. “I thought you said you weren’t arriving until around eight or nine?”

“I must have remembered wrong. It’s been a long time—” the old man— _Jack,_ he realizes, is looking at himself in the future, finally putting it together— says, cutting off before he says the other man’s name.

Jack freezes on the step as the two kiss; it’s soft and intimate, like they’ve loved each other forever.

The shorter man grins at Jack. “Goodness gracious, you’re such a baby,” he says fondly, and reaches out like he wants to pinch Jack’s cheeks.

“He’s had a rough night, no chirping, c’mon,” Old Jack says gently, pulling his lover’s hand away. “We’ll be down in a bit.”

Jack gets a nod and a smile and Old Jack gets another kiss before the man continues down the stairs, humming merrily as he goes. Jack tries not to stare, but he can’t help himself.

Old Jack smiles fondly as he watches his— husband? — walk down the stairs, and his face softens a little when he sees the expression on Jack’s face.

“Come along,” he says in Québécois.

“Who is he?” Jack answers in the same. “This is me? I get to…?” he stares at the pictures on the wall in wonder, but he doesn’t recognize anyone. They must be his… future children? And their children? There are places they’ve traveled, matching hockey jerseys, framed newspaper clippings…

“Aw, don’t look at that, you’ll get a complex. Or a bigger one. In here, there you go,” Old Jack says, ushering him into a bedroom and then into an ensuite bathroom so he can wash up.

Jack splashes cold water on his face and watches as Old Jack pulls out a pair of jeans and a soft looking t-shirt and a sweater for him to wear. He glances around the bedroom; the bed is like a centerpiece, with an oak headframe carved in intricate designs, covered in downey linens and fluffy pillows.

On the bedside table there’s a little bowl filled with odds and ends; keys, some loose change— and a _Stanley Cup ring._ Right there. Mixed in with all this casual nonsense, like an afterthought. “You— we— I— won?” Jack says in disbelief, stepping closer to examine it just as a sweater chucks him softly in the head.

“Maybe,” Old Jack says. “Not telling you that one, for sure. That could be Papa’s old ring, who knows?” He smiles at Jack and tosses him the rest of the clothes.

Jack gets dressed, his mind full of questions. He stumbles a little as he tries to put on the jeans, and Old Jack comes and helps him up, slide one leg in at a time.

“Easy there,” he says gently. “Look, this is weird, I mean, I feel like I remember almost exactly what I said because I carried it with me for so long, but as the years went by… my memory isn’t so good nowadays.” Old Jack helps him into the t-shirt and the sweater, holds him steady by the shoulders. “Look. I know where you’re coming from. I remember. It’s not— it’s not your fault, okay?”

Jack blinks. “I—”

“Just remember that. You tried your best and you know, you don’t get drafted at eighteen right out of juniors. It’s not the end of the world.”

Jack takes a deep breath, and it feels like everything he’s been feeling since he’s been jolted into this future wants to pour out of him in waves. He shudders, like he’s close to tears. “But I’m not good enough— how do I—”

Old Jack envelops him in a hug, patting him on the back. “It’s going to be okay,” he says.

He holds him there for a long moment, then draws away, hold his gaze steady. “You alright? Ready to go downstairs?”

Jack hesitates. He has no idea how he’s supposed to interact with all of these people.

“Don’t worry, you won’t be here long, just long enough to disappear. I remember that for sure.”

“But—”

Jack has so many questions, but someone is shouting from downstairs, and Old Jack is already calling, “Yes, yes, we’re coming,” and starting for the door.

Jack follows him downstairs, heart beating quicker and quicker, and finally catches Old Jack by the shoulder, seized by a sudden desperation. There’s a wedding photo framed on the other end of the hallway, too blurry for Jack to make out the details, but it makes him ache with hope. “Please tell me, what’s his name? How do I get here, how can I make this happen? How do I find him?”

Old Jack laughs. “You have to live through it. I did, and now it’s your turn.”

Then the door opens, and his future husband bursts through, a smile from ear to ear. He’s got a nice face, Jack decides, and then a middle aged blonde woman comes out behind him, and another man, and then two more men, and then two toddlers and a teenager and—

Jack is surrounded by people— family— he realizes, all introducing themselves and looking at him with affection and awe and amusement, and there’s nothing but love in this house, and he wants it, he wants this future so bad.

 

* * *

 

 

_09 October 2013, Eric is 18, Jack is 23_

 

Jack clenches his hockey stick; another scrimmage and once more Bittle has just flopped to the ice with even the barest chance of getting checked. He’s so.. infuriating. Yes, he’s fast, and got a few sharp moves and did an impressive play with Ransom the other day but all of that means nothing if he can’t withstand the intensity of the sport.

Who does he think he is? And on an athletic scholarship, no less.

After the scrimmage is over Jack wastes no time in skating up to Bittle. “This isn’t a joke,” he snaps. “Either get with the program or _quit.”_

He ignores Bittle’s hard stare as he gets off the ice and heads into the locker room. There’s a part of him that feels bad about being so harsh, but it’s _hockey._ They’ve got their first big game against Yale coming up soon, and Jack knows that those guys don’t mess around, especially not with checking. This frog needs to quit before he gets hurt.

Jack tosses his gear in his locker but it doesn’t quite make it there; he can still hear it clattering to the floor as the room disappears in a wash of color.

 

* * *

 

 

_13 February 2003, Eric is 7 (Jack is 23)_

 

Jack lands in a flurry of leaves, right in the middle of a mix of colorful flowerbeds and bushes, scattering petals and leaves everywhere. He groans, trying to catch his bearings. He’s in someone’s backyard somewhere and it’s spring. Late afternoon, judging by the soft way the sun is dipping behind the two-story house.

How weird. He’s never been here before. Not that he has a wealth of time travel experience to rely on; what he remembers from his childhood has always been marked with familiarity, either travelling to someone he knows or somewhere he’s been before, at least. Aside from that time he was flung into his own distant future, but right after that they changed his meds again.

That must have been it, why he started travelling again. He’s going to need to talk with Callahan about this.

Great, he was liking this lower dosage actually, finding he had more energy to focus on his schoolwork and hockey. It’s going to suck, especially now that the season is on them; Jack doesn’t really think he can afford to play with his meds right now and figure it all out again.

The last thing he needs is uncontrollable time travel during hockey season.

At least he’s alone. He can just sit and hide in these bushes until the episode is over, and hopefully no one will notice him.

A sliding door opens and a small boy dashes out of the house, sobbing.

Jack self-consciously tries to get further in the bushes behind the tulips, and tries to be quiet as he’s doing so.

The boy is crying as he gets into the sandbox, makes a half-hearted motion to pick up the shovel there and continue to work on the half-finished sandcastle, and then gives up and flops face first into the sand, hiccuping tearfully. He wipes his face and makes a determined expression, lips wobbling as he picks up his shovel again and gets to digging.

The boy is small and blond, and Jack for some reason is reminded strongly of Bittle, especially that glint in his eye today after Jack called him out on the ice.

He tries not to move, but his leg is cramping up and something is telling him that hiding probably isn’t the best option right now. Of course the first rule of time travel is always about self-preservation— get clothes, shelter, find familiar ground, familiar people. Hiding works too, but it’s just been so _long_ since Jack has travelled he’s almost forgotten the protocol you’re supposed to give to non-chrono-impaired people when having an episode.

Plus he has no idea how long he’s going to spend in this time. It could be five minutes, five hours… he’s read accounts of chrono-impaired people who’ve spent days in an episode before.

Jack accidentally knocks over noisy branch as he shifts, and the boy looks up warily.

“Who’s there?” he calls, brandishing his shovel.

Protocol, protocol… fuck, the kid’s gotta be five or something? There’s no way the normal spleal is going to work. “I’m a time traveller,” Jack says cautiously. “I’m sorry I landed in your tulips.”

The boy’s eyes widen. “Time traveller! Oh! My Auntie Kate’s neighbor’s daughter is one!” He’s got a deep Southern twang, thicker than Bittle’s even.

“Yeah,” Jack says. “My name’s Jack.”

“Hi, Jack!” the boy says. He wipes at his face, tears apparently forgotten at this new and exciting development.

“Do you mind if— could I borrow some clothes? Grown up clothes?”

“Sure!” the boy says, and he runs off into the house.

Jack waits. The leaves starting to itch his skin when the boy comes back. There are still tear tracks on his face but he looks much better. He has a bundle of clothes in his arms.

“Mister Jack! Are you here?”

“In the bushes.”

Jack takes the clothes and almost laughs at the randomness of the collection. It looks like the boy just dove into a laundry basket and grabbed what he could.  There are a few blouses, a short pink bathrobe, a few colorful socks, a pair of kid-sized shorts and thankfully, a pair of khakis that look like they’ll fit him. He puts those on, and then takes the bathrobe and shrugs it on as well so he’s at least mostly dressed.

He steps out of the bushes and the boy gapes at him. “Oh, I’m so sorry Mister Jack! I’ll go back and get you one of Coach’s shirts!”

“It’s okay,” Jack says.

“But that’s a lady’s robe,” the boy says, scandalized. “It’s _pink.”_

Jack shrugs. “I don’t mind.” He really doesn’t. Pink isn’t his favorite color, and Shitty definitely wears it better, but he’s worn it before.

“I wanted to wear a pink shirt on Monday to school but Coach made me change,” the boy says sadly. “Said the other kids would make fun of me. It doesn’t matter, they make fun of me anyways.” He sits down in the sandbox, pokes at his sandcastle dejectedly.

“Are you okay?” Jack asks, sitting down in the sand too. “You were… crying, earlier.”

The boy’s eyes well up with tears, but they don’t spill. “I didn’t get any of the problems right on our math homework an’ Miss Susie made us do them on the board an’ I didn’t get them right either in front of everyone an’ Jason and Charlie told me to just quit an’ I— I don’t want to go to school anymore.”

“Math is hard,” Jack agrees. He’s taking calculus right now and he’s constantly perplexed. “School is important, though.”

The boy sniffs. “I guess. I just wanna stay home an’ bake with Mama but she says school is where I can make friends.”

Jack sighs, trying to get comfortable. It doesn’t feel like he’s going to leave this time period soon. He has no idea where he is, or _when_ , for that matter. The clothing he’s wearing doesn’t look too different, but then again, it could be old. “How old are you? Five?”

“Seven,” the boy says, sticking out his tongue.

Okay. “I didn’t have a lot of friends when I was your age, either,” Jack says. He was privately tutored at home because of getting into hockey early on, and then he went right into juniors after. What he does remember of his childhood and interacting with other kids was that they were intimidated or only wanted to be friends because of Bad Bob, hockey legend.

The boy’s eyes widen. “Do you have friends now?”

“Yes,” Jack says immediately. It’s strange, how he went his whole life looking for somewhere be he belonged, and he thought hockey was always where it was at— and yes, his heart was always in the sport but he never felt like he was on a _team_ until Samwell. “I have friends,” he says. “I almost didn’t go to school because I wanted to quit— at everything,” he says vaguely. “But I didn’t. And I— I learned a lot. At school. And I made friends.”

The boy draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, looking at the ground.

Jack picks up the shovel and starts digging a moat around the sandcastle, just to keep his hands busy. He’s never been much of a talker, always found it easier for others to lead the conversation, but he doesn’t want this little boy to be sad. He tries his best to talk about his struggles in calculus, how even grownups have problems with math, and fumbles his way through a story about how he forgot to do a homework assignment until the boy is laughing again.

“That’s wrong, Mister Jack.” The way this seven year old is reprimanding him would be hilarious, if not for the Very Serious expression on his face. “Homework is very important.”

Jack laughs. “Well, I tried my best. I just was busy playing hockey.”

“What’s that?”

What’s _hockey?_ “Only the best sport in the world,” Jack says honestly.

“Coach says next year when I’m old enough I can join the PeeWee Madison football team,” the boy says, but he doesn’t seem too happy about it.

“Football can be pretty fun. I like hockey better. It’s—” how to describe the freedom, the thrill of being on the ice? — “Skating. It’s really amazing, you know, on the ice, and when you move there’s that chill in the air and you just kind of _glide_ and you’re moving and you’re just— it’s like flying.”  

“Oh.” The boy takes a deep breath.

“Have you ever skated?”

The boy shakes his head. “I—”

“Dicky!” A woman’s voice calls from inside the house. “Come in and wash up for dinner!”

“Coming, Mama!” the boy— Dicky— calls back. He stands up, brushing as much sand off himself as he can. “Do you want to eat dinner with us, Mister Ja— oh!”

Jack can feel the pull in his stomach, and he must be starting to disappear already.

“Goodbye!” Dicky says.

“Don’t quit school,” Jack says. “Or anything.”

“I promise!” Dicky nods and smiles. “I’ll see you next time, Mister Jack!”

Jack’s already thinking that it’s highly unlikely that he’ll time travel here again, but Dicky’s already holding out his pinky and he’s looking up at Jack and saying, “Promise?”

“Promise,” Jack says, curling his pinky around the boy’s own before he disappears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: nothing against Klonopin. As far as medication and treatment goes, every individual has different needs and what's right for one person (i.e. going down on one particular medication and upping a different one) isn't right for others. 
> 
> Jack's experiences in therapy and inpatient care, specifically with the anxiety medication I talk about in this fic are drawn from my own, including my experiences with those meds. I was prescribed a really high dosage to treat my depression and anxiety attacks, and I also played competitive tennis in high school, but it was really awful, like moving through a fog, and then after working with my doc and slowly easing off of it helped a lot with my school focus abilities and my game. 
> 
> Different medications will affect people in different ways; some people will thrive on one that other people will have no use for. Jack's opinions about his meds in this fic are per, for his character, for him, and not a narrative judgement on it as a whole. I think medication can be extremely helpful in taking care of one's mental health and that talking to one's doctor is important for figuring out whether a particular combination is working or not working. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading so far by the way and all the feedback! It's much appreciated. <3


	3. Chapter 3

_24 October 2016, Jack is 23_

The time travel doesn’t stop. Jack knows he’s supposed to go to Callahan and get his meds adjusted again, but… he doesn’t. For all that the studies on chrono-impairment say that episodes can be incredibly jarring and disruptive to daily life, and Jack theoretically shouldn’t be able to be a college student or captain of his hockey team, but he always travels to a particular garden in Georgia. To Dicky.

Jack finds himself looking forward to his visits; sometimes Dicky is two and sometimes he’s four or seven or ten but it’s a constant somehow, seeing this kid. Jack likes Dicky’s warm voice and the joyful way he says hello, the way _y’all_ tumbles out of his mouth. At first it was strange, but it’s… easier, sometimes, to talk to Dicky than it is to the other students at college. It’s not that he doesn’t have friends at school; Shitty’s one of the best friends he’s ever had, and his teammates are great. The Haus is great. But there’s pressure; they look up to him as captain, and Dicky… to Dicky, he’s just Jack.

It reminds Jack a lot of his days coaching peewee hockey; he missed how open minded kids could be.

It’s nice, having a friend who doesn’t know about… everything.

More often than not, Jack ends up helping Dicky with his homework, helping him sound out vocabulary words or doing long division in the grass with him. Dicky’s persistent with his questions, and it’s easy to talk to him, about stuff Jack never even talks to Shitty about. The first time Dicky asked why Jack was sad, the whole process of trying to explain to a five year old what was going on eventually led Jack to just realizing that he was just nervous. About Samwell, about his legacy, about everything.

Jack knows he should tell Callahan, but his time travel is the one thing this quarter that he can count on. The garden is always warm and peaceful and Dicky is always happy to see him. At school, Jack’s bored with his classes, and with the hockey team, well, he’s got no end of frustrations there. Bittle’s still struggling with checking, and they’ve got their first big game against Dartmouth coming up, and he’s nowhere near ready.

He knows he’s hiding, spending time in the past with Dicky, but there’s a part of Jack that thinks it’s doing good. He’s appreciated there; Dicky doesn’t have friends at his school, and it seems like his father expects a lot of him. Jack knows a lot about that.

Jack’s just gotten done with a grueling practice when it happens; he feels nauseous for a second and falls to the floor in Faber’s halls.

 

* * *

 

 

_17 March, 2010, Eric is 15 (Jack is 23)_

Jack looks up and for a second thinks he must have not traveled at all; there’s a familiar chill of ice and chips of it flaking the floor, except Faber was silent and this ice rink, wherever he is, is filled with people laughing and talking and the buzz of anticipation. There’s an announcer on the PA system saying something Jack doesn’t quite understand— it’s not hockey they’re playing. Some sort of scoring system.

He gets to his feet quickly, his head spinning, and he ducks into an alcove just as a few people walk down the hall. He doesn’t know any of them; it’s a girl wearing a tight sparkly outfit, a woman throwing a coat over her shoulders and speaking encouragingly to her. A pair of skates dangle from her hands— figure skates.

What in the world? Why would Jack be here? This doesn’t fit the pattern at all. Whenever he’s traveled lately it’s always been to Dicky, to his garden in Georgia.

Fuck, it’s some sort of skating competition, and Jack’s wandering around naked.

At least he knows his way around ice rinks. There’s got to be a locker room somewhere.

Jack rushes down the hall, instinct guiding him; luckily no one else spots him before he ducks into a locker room, and there he finds a towel that he wraps around himself. He’s much less conspicuous now, wandering around until he finds an abandoned duffel bag with clothes in it. The shiny track pants and jacket aren’t his style at all, but he’s grateful to have them.

He wanders back out into the rink, wondering why his subconscious brought him here. A sparkling banner in the hallway announces that this is the Southern Junior Regionals. Jack eyes it curiously for a moment and grabs a pamphlet.

Georgia. He’s in Georgia. The date is March 17, 2010.

Would Dicky be here? How old would he be? Jack remembers talking about skating with Dicky before, but he’s never met the boy older than ten. Maybe Dicky came to watch the competition, getting an interest in the sport?  Is he here with his parents?

Jack never got an actual time frame for when exactly he was visiting, just that it was sometime in the past. This is only three years from Jack’s present. Dicky might be a baby for all Jack knows.

Well, he might as well get a seat or something.

Jack turns down the hall and makes his way towards the stands, and then he freezes.

Pacing back and forth, wearing a blue sequined outfit, is— no, it can’t be.

Jack stares, because it so obviously _is._ Younger, yes, more roundness in his cheeks, a bit shorter maybe than how Jack knows him in the present, but it’s undeniably—

“And up next after the break, we have Eric Bittle from Madison County, performing Halo by Beyoncé,” the speaker says.

“Bitty—” Jack splutters, and catches himself, because he hasn’t ever used the team nickname before. “Bittle—” Eric feels too intimate, and Dicky, well, Jack can see the boy he used to color with in the garden, but he’s never seen him like this. He can’t believe he didn’t see it before. The same eyes, the same determined set of jaw.

Bitty spots him and his mouth falls open a little, and then his whole face lights up. He dashes forward, seizing Jack in a hug. “Jack!” he gasps. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

“Yeah, I—” Jack doesn’t know what to say; Bitty is looking up at him in absolute adoration, a clear contrast to the stubborn scowl he’s used to getting at practices. Jack pulls back from the hug, mind whirling.

There’s a high blush on Bitty’s cheeks, and a pleased, shy smile starting on his lips.

He’s wearing makeup, Jack realizes. There’s a dusting of glitter at the corner of his eyes. It looks good.

Jack doesn’t— he _really_ doesn’t know what to say.

Fortunately Bitty starts babbling immediately; Jack only catches every other word, enough to know that Bitty is nervous and the skater before him apparently got a nine. Multiples of them.

Jack places his hands on Bitty’s shoulders, soft and steady. “You’re going to do great,” he says firmly.

Bitty looks up at him, eyes shining. “I’m going to do great,” he says.

“Eric!” The voice is stern, with a strong Russian accent. A woman with a high ponytail and a pinched face strides towards them, arms folded. “Say goodbye to your friend, you are up.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Bitty says, pulling away and heads out to the ice. He glances back at Jack once more and nods at him.

Jack nods back and watches him skate out into the empty ice.

“You have a seat?” The woman gives Jack a curious look. “I am Katya, Eric’s coach.” Her voice softens a little. “It is good, that you are here. His parents could not make it today. I was afraid he would not have any faces in the crowd for him.”

“Oh,” Jack says.

“You can watch with me from here. It would be too late for you to return to your seat now.”

The music has started; a swelling piano score. Jack doesn’t keep up with pop culture much, doesn’t know the artist, but he recognizes the tune as a popular one that graced the radio a few years ago.

Bitty is in the center of the ice, his eyes closed, arms outstretched, waiting. The spotlight shines on him, setting off the sequins on his blue outfit; there are patterns across his shoulders that look like wings.

It starts off slow with the first verse; Bitty gracefully skating backwards, picking up speed, a level of concentration on his face that Jack’s never seen before. Maybe because he hasn’t noticed.

Bitty glides across the ice like he’s flying. Jack has never seen anything like it.

“And a perfect quadruple axel to begin with!” the announcer says as Bitty lands a complicated looking jump.

There are more jumps and turns and Bitty is _fast._ Jack has seen him use his speed in practice, but never like this, this complicated display of technique. Spins and spirals and even a backflip make its way into the program, and Jack never knew this world was out there.

It’s beautiful.

Bitty skates with a fierce confidence Jack’s never seen before. He’s fearless, dancing across the ice like it’s his realm.

There’s a moment when Bitty catches Jack’s eye and he grins at him. Jack can’t help but smile back.

The program is over before he realizes it, and then Bitty is skating off the ice to a roar of applause. He bows and picks up a few thrown bouquets and exits the rink, hugging Katya and talking quickly with her.

“That was amazing,” Jack says, when Bitty finally comes over to him.

Bitty takes a long draw from his water bottle and sets it down, wiping his mouth with his hands. His whole face is flushed with exertion. “I think I stumbled a bit on that last lutz,” Bitty says.

“I don’t know what that is, but it looked incredible. _You’re_ incredible,” Jack says.

Bitty grins at him, bouncing on the toes of his feet. “Thank you, Jack.”

“Eric! Scores!” Katya waves Bitty over.  

Bitty bites his lip.

“It’ll be fine,” Jack says, jerking his head.

“Are you going to be here after? I just— I haven’t seen you in such a long time, it would be great to catch up.” Bitty looks at his feet, and then back up at Jack.

“I— I don’t know. I can’t control it.”

Bitty nods.

“When was the last time— you saw me? I just saw you last week. You were five.” This might be the weirdest friendship Jack’s ever had. He’s still trying to reconcile that the boy he knows as Dicky and the teenager that stands before him who so clearly still thinks of Jack as his friend, and the college student that Jack is pretty sure doesn’t like him at all.

“It’s been years, Jack,” Bitty says with a sigh.

“Eric!” Katya snaps.

“Okay, I’ll be right back, but if you—”

“You’ll see me again, I promise,” Jack says.

“Okay,” Bitty says, almost shy.

Jack watches him walk over to Katya, where they wait for the judges’ scores.

There’s a bit of static over the speaker, and then: “Nine point eight… nine point seven… nine point nine…”

Bitty’s mouth falls open in delight, and he’s so happy and proud; Jack wants to do something, hug him, do a celly, anything, but he can feel the familiar twist behind his navel again, and he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

 

_24 October 2016, Jack is 23_

The world spins and spins, and Jack looks up and he’s back at Faber. It could almost be the same rink, except this one is empty.

Almost empty.

He shivers, turning around and heading back to the locker rooms, hoping it’s still open.

“Bro, I know you like to stay after practice and get some more ice time in but seriously it’s been hours— hey!”

Jack looks up and Shitty is waggling his eyebrows at him.

“I, um…”

“No need to explain, really, I’m just a little miffed that you wanted to streak across campus that you didn’t call me. But I’m totally down.” Shitty winks and reaches for the hem of his shirt.

“Shitty, I’m not streaking.”

Shitty doesn’t say anything, just eyes Jack like he knows that wasn’t the case at all. “Okay. You want my pants? I can walk back to the Haus in my boxers, no big deal.”

"Thanks, but my clothes should be here." A few hours he's been gone, Shitty says. It's likely no one has moved his clothes yet.

Jack's grateful Shitty doesn’t ask about his nudity as he finds the spot in Faber where he traveled from earlier. His clothes and shoes are still there, left in a pitiful clump, and Jack pulls them on hastily as Shitty talks about Penguins’ prospects this season.

Then talk turns to Shitty’s classes, and then a rant about misogyny. Shitty talks the whole way back to the Haus, about anything and nothing, and it’s nice, wrapping himself in the conversation.

They’re still on campus when Jack finally finds the nerve to say it. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” Shitty cocks an eyebrow at him, but other than that just keeps walking next to Jack.

“So I… I have chrono-impairment.”

Shitty nods.

Jack exhales; he’s never told any of his friends before. Aside from Dicky—Bitty— Bittle— and his family and therapists and doctors, no one knows.

He thought it would be easier than when he told Shitty he was bisexual; in some ways, it is, but it’s different. Jack never thought much about his sexuality; didn’t care to date much after what happened with Kent, it wouldn’t come up, ever. But there’s a huge stigma about chrono-impairment, especially with public regard to the instability of it; what kind of jobs these people could have. Jack might as well kiss a career in the NHL goodbye if anyone ever found out.

Shitty throws an arm over his shoulder. “You hungry, man? One of my cousins has this friend that has that. Says he always gets wickedly hungry after a trip. That’s where you’re coming from, right?”

Jack nods.

“Cool. You can tell me about it if you want to.”

They end up in the cafeteria where Shitty swipes Jack in and they heap up their plates from the buffet line, and Jack talks about getting diagnosed as a kid, how the episodes have come back ever since the change in his meds.

He doesn’t talk about Bitty.

He’s not quite ready to share that yet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter preview:
> 
> "Why didn't you tell me?"  
> "You asked me not to, Jack," Bitty says softly, not meeting his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

_26 October 2013, Eric is 18, Jack is 23_

Their first game against Dartmouth Jack is nervous, distracted. He doesn’t score at all, barely remembers the game in a rush of chaos and nerves.

He keeps turning around to look at Bitty, and he can see the same speed and determination he saw in that ice skating competition.

Bitty’s got the puck, the other team smells blood and is going after him. Jack’s on the other side of the ice— he won’t make it in time—

He freezes, spotting one of the Dartmouth d-men scowling at Bitty, mouthing off at him and charging forward.

Bitty doesn’t move for a half second, a half second that’s too long and Jack’s heart skips a beat.

And then lightning quick, he flies off, spinning gracefully and with a set jaw slides the puck over to Ransom already in position and then Ransom shoots—

It’s pandemonium.

Jack knows his mouth has fallen open, is frozen, can’t move until Shitty jostles past him with the group of guys to Ransom and BItty for the celly. For a second Bitty looks up at him from the tangle of teammates to catch his eye, a proud triumphant smirk on his face, like a challenge, like he’s saying _see? I did it without getting checked._

Jack bites his lip. He joins the group hug at Shitty’s behest, pats his teammates awkwardly, but skates off and showers quickly, heading back to the Haus to get some alone time before the inevitable party tonight.

It was a great play, but what if, what if Bitty didn’t move and he’d gotten checked? He won’t always have the luxury of those few seconds, what if that d-man had gone forward just moment earlier?

Jack does a few stretches, and then some pushups and lunges and a few more core exercises to get his mind off things. He can hear the party already started downstairs; music and raucous laughter and the smell of alcohol faint in the air. It doesn’t bother him anymore, and sometimes he’ll even go down and join his teammates, maybe nurse one beer or so, but tonight it’s definitely not what he wants tonight.

Jack can still concentrate on working out because the scent of alcohol actually isn’t that bad; it’s mostly masked by the scent of something sweet and buttery, and a rich cinnamon apple.

His body is exhausted, protesting every move, and his stomach groans loudly. He wants to taste whatever is being made so badly.

It would mean going downstairs, though.

He’s in the middle of squats when Shitty appears in the doorway. “Dude, you wanna come hang out?”

“Nah,” Jack says, and he doesn’t clarify. He doesn’t have to, really, not with Shitty.

“Cool, I’ll drink one for you,” Shitty says with a salute.

Jack nods at him and Shitty thoughtfully closes the door when he leaves.

Fuck everything.

It’s probably overkill, exercising after a game, but it’s mindless, easy. The ache in his muscles is comforting as he finishes his set of squats.

Jack grabs his water bottle and takes a long swig when the jerking feeling of time travel takes him by surprise.

His water bottle falls to the floor and he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

_28 May 2005, Eric is 10 (Jack is 23)_

The garden smells like honeysuckle; it’s spring, here. Late afternoon. The sun hasn’t quite set yet, but it’s getting there. Jack is alone in the garden, but there’s a clean set of clothes behind the shed. He puts them on and flops back in the grass, watching the sky for a minute, the streaks of orange rushing towards the horizon.

“Jack! Jack, you’re here!”

“Hey, Bi— Dicky,” Jack says, as a shadow falls over him.

Bitty is ten or so, and his face is round and his eyes are sparkling with delight. “You’re just in time, how did you know?”

Jack’s stomach growls, and Bitty laughs.

“I guess it’s where my body wanted to go,” Jack says.

“I’ll be right back!”

Jack watches Bitty rush towards the screen door, and it bangs shut behind him. He reappears a minute later with two plates, carefully balanced in his hands.

“Some fresh biscuits and gravy and collard greens and roasted chicken— I made the biscuits! And the pie. It’s apple.” Bitty grins at him and hands him the plates, sitting down on the ground, beaming at him.

Jack hasn’t eaten since the protein bar he scarfed down after the game, and he takes the plate in awe. The chicken is a golden brown, the skin crispy, and a rich gravy smothers the round, fluffy biscuits. He starts with the greens; they’re tender and delicious, and then makes his way around the plate, savoring every bite.

Bitty talks as he eats; pieces of his day, how he’d been helping his mother prepare this Sunday dinner for her book club group and how he was allowed, all by himself, to prepare the pie.

The dessert looks fantastic; the lattice is a little clumsy but when Jack brings a forkful to his mouth the crust is flaking and perfect, the apple filling sweet and decadent.

“That’s amazing,” Jack says, sincere.

“Thank you!”

There’s a moment of content silence, and Jack closes his eyes.

“Are you okay, Jack? You seem kinda sad.”

“I just— I’m having a problem. With, uh, one of my friends.”

“Oh?” Bitty draws his hands under his chin and looks up.

“I want to help him but I… don’t know how to talk to him. I think he doesn’t like me, really.”

“But he’s your friend,” Bitty says, eyebrows knitting together.

“Kind of? Not really. I mean, we play on the same team. I guess it’s not the same.”

It’s funny how Jack can say he and Bitty are friends— maybe in this strange in between moments, like here in this garden in his now, in Bitty’s past. The Bitty in his now Jack has no idea where to start with him.

“Hmm. You should try! If you want to be friends. Mama always says friendship starts with hello. And helping each other do things! So that’s good.”

“Yeah, that’s an idea,” Jack muses. “Thanks. For everything. And the pie.”

“Of course!” Bitty says. “Hey, Jack? Are we friends in the future? Do you know me? Wherever you go back to? I mean, you always seem to be the same age whenever I see you, I just…”

Jack doesn’t know how to answer that, and he just looks down at his plate, his plate that’s dropping into the soft grass as he disappears—

 

* * *

 

 

_29 October 2013, Eric is 18, Jack is 23_

 

Jack mulls over Bitty’s words for awhile. It isn’t until his alarm goes off on Sunday morning for his usual run when it occurs to him— he wants to help. He can help.

It doesn’t have to be a solo practice.

Bitty’s dorm room is easy to find, and after a few quick raps on the door it opens, Bitty looking up at him, his hair adorably sleep-mussed.

“Lord, Jack, it’s like five in the morning,” Bitty says, yawning.

“Four, actually. Come on.”

“What? Where are we— Jack?”

“Faber. Extra practice.”

“You didn’t say anything about extra practices on Friday,” Bitty grumbles.

“This is just for you. I want—” be nice, Jack reminds himself— “I want to help you with your checking.”

Bitty blinks at that, and then nods.

The walk to Faber is silent, but not… it’s not the same tension they used to have. It’s still dark by the time they make it to the rink, and the metal lock is still cold when he sticks his key in.

They do warmups, skating around the ice, stretching for a bit, and dawn starts to peek through the windows.

“It’s so early I’m going to vomit,” Bitty says, groaning.

“You’ve never seen the sun rise from the rink, eh? Thought you were a figure skating champion.”

The chirp earns him an amused snort from Bitty, and Jack smiles, pleased at this interaction.

The checking, however, does not go well. Bitty tenses up immediately; Jack isn’t even wearing pads, but Bitty freaks out and crumples to the ice.

“Seriously, Bittle,” Jack says. “You’re a great skater, but you’ve got this stupid mental block about being hit. If that’s the only thing holding you back then we’re going to get you over it.”

Bitty lifts his chin, gives Jack a defiant, challenging stare.

Jack sighs. “Just trust me, okay?” He doesn’t know what else to say, he really does want to help.

“We?” Bitty asks, raising his eyebrow.

“Yes, _we._ I want you to be your best, Bittle. You at your best— you can do anything.”

Something dawns on Bitty then, a curious light coming into his eyes. “I never— I never told you that I was a figure skating champion.”

Oh.

Jack rubs the back of his neck, closes his eyes for a second.

When he opens them, Bitty is staring at him, wide-eyed, shocked still. “It’s started for you, hasn’t it.”

“Yeah. I— Southern Junior Regionals. It was a few days ago, for me.” The admission is like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, and Jack stands up in front of Bitty, unsure of what’s to happen next.

Bitty clasps his hands to his mouth. “But that’s not the first time you— oh, Jack, when did you start?”

“Earlier this month, not too long after school started. I didn’t know it was you until I saw you at the competition and they said your name.” Jack can feel goosebumps on his arms. He is just wearing a t-shirt in an ice rink, but he’s Canadian. He doesn’t get chills from this little bit of cold.

“Oh.”

They look at each other for a long moment, and Jack wonders how many other times he’s been to visit Bitty in his childhood, things he hasn’t said yet, experienced yet.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You asked me not to, Jack," Bitty says softly, not meeting his eyes.

“I—” It must not have happened yet. Fucking time travel. Jack grits his teeth.

“You don’t— you don’t get to be upset with me for doing what you asked me to,” Bitty says, voice tight. “You have no idea what it was like to meet you for the first time and you _didn’t know me._ ”

Jack unclenches his fists; he didn’t even know he’d tightened them up in the first place. “I’m sorry,” he manages. _I want to know you,_ he doesn’t say.

Bitty nods at him.

It’s a start.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me on [tumblr ](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/bleep0bleep) if you wanna say hi. I will try to update as often as I can!


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